Reversed
by KellyHerondale
Summary: What if Clary wasn't so stubborn? What if she stayed home? What would Jocelyn tell her? What if she didn't go to the pandemonium? How would she and Jace meet? Based on my personal theories. Would Jace meet someone? What if Jonathan was never evil? What if he was also living in the institute, but also parabati with Jace?
1. Chapter 1

**Hello y'all! Ok so this story is about Clary Fray. What if she listened to her mother and stayed home, would her mother tell her about the shadow world? What if she never went to the pandemonium? How would she meet Jace? Based on my theories!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any TMI charcters.**

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Clary

Clary hung up the phone and glanced around the living room. Evidence of her mother's artistic tendencies was everywhere, from the handmade velvet throw pillows piled on the dark red sofa to the walls hung with Jocelyn's paintings, carefully framed—landscapes, mostly: the winding streets of downtown Manhattan lit with golden light; scenes of Prospect Park in winter, the gray ponds edged with lacelike films of white ice.

On the mantel over the fireplace was a framed photo of Clary's father. A thoughtful-looking fair man in military dress, his eyes bore the telltale traces of laugh lines at the corners. He'd been a decorated soldier serving overseas. Jocelyn had some of his medals in a small box by her bed. Not that the medals had done anyone any good when Jonathan Clark had crashed his car into a tree just outside Albany and died before his daughter was even born.

Jocelyn had gone back to using her maiden name after he died. She never talked about Clary's father, but she kept the box engraved with his initials, J. C, next to her bed. Along with the medals were one or two photos, a wedding ring, and a single lock of blond hair. Sometimes Jocelyn took the box out and opened it and held the lock of hair very gently in her hands before putting it back and carefully locking the box up again.

The sound of the key turning in the front door roused Clary out of her reverie. Hastily she threw herself down on the couch and tried to look as if she were immersed in one of the paperbacks her mother had left stacked on the end table. Jocelyn recognized reading as a sacred pastime and usually wouldn't interrupt Clary in the middle of a book, even to yell at her.

The door opened with a thump. It was Luke, his arms full of what looked like big square pieces of pasteboard. When he set them down, Clary saw that they were cardboard boxes, folded flat. He straightened up and turned to her with a smile.

"Hey, Un—hey, Luke," she said. He'd asked her to stop calling him Uncle Luke about a year ago, claiming that it made him feel old, and anyway reminded him of Uncle Tom's Cabin. Besides, he'd reminded her gently, he wasn't really her uncle, just a close friend of her mother's who'd known her all her life. "Where's Mom?"

"Parking the truck," he said, straightening his lanky frame with a groan. He was dressed in his usual uniform: old jeans, a flannel shirt, and a bent pair of gold-rimmed spectacles that sat askew on the bridge of his nose. "Remind me again why this building has no service elevator?"

"Because it's old, and has character," Clary said immediately. Luke grinned. "What are the boxes for?" she asked.

His grin vanished. "Your mother wanted to pack up some things," he said, avoiding her gaze.

"What things?" Clary asked.

He gave an airy wave. "Extra stuff lying around the house. Getting in the way. You know she never throws anything out. So what are you up to? Studying?" He plucked the book out of her hand and read out loud: "The world still teems with those motley beings whom a more sober philosophy has discarded. Fairies and goblins, ghosts and demons, still hover about—" He lowered the book and looked at her over his glasses. "Is this for school?"

"The Golden Bough? No. School's not for a few weeks." Clary took the book back from him. "It's my mom's."

"I had a feeling."

She dropped it back on the table. "Luke?"

"Uh-huh?" The book already forgotten, he was rummaging in the tool kit next to the hearth. "Ah, here it is." He pulled out an orange plastic tape gun and gazed at it with deep satisfaction.

"What would you do if you saw something nobody else could see?"

The tape gun fell out of Luke's hand, and hit the tiled hearth. He knelt to pick it up, not looking at her. "You mean if I were the only witness to a crime, that sort of thing?"

"No. I mean, if there were other people around, but you were the only one who could see something. As if it were invisible to everyone but you."

He hesitated, still kneeling, the dented tape gun gripped in his hand.

"I know it sounds crazy," Clary ventured nervously, "but…"

He turned around. His eyes, very blue behind the glasses, rested on her with a look of firm affection. "Clary, you're an artist, like your mother. That means you see the world in ways that other people don't. It's your gift, to see the beauty and the horror in ordinary things. It doesn't make you crazy—just different. There's nothing wrong with being different."

Clary pulled her legs up, and rested her chin on her knees. In her mind's eye she saw the storage room, Isabelle's gold whip, the blue-haired boy convulsing in his death spasms, and Jace's tawny eyes. Beauty and horror. She said, "If my dad had lived, do you think he'd have been an artist too?"

Luke looked taken aback. Before he could answer her, the door swung open and Clary's mother stalked into the room, her boot heels clacking on the polished wooden floor. She handed Luke a set of jingling car keys and turned to look at her daughter.

Jocelyn Fray was a slim, compact woman, her hair a few shades darker than Clary's and twice as long. At the moment it was twisted up in a dark red knot, stuck through with a graphite pen to hold it in place. She wore paint-spattered overalls over a lavender T-shirt, and brown hiking boots whose soles were caked with oil paint.

People always told Clary that she looked like her mother, but she couldn't see it herself. The only thing that was similar about them was their figures: They were both slender, with small chests and narrow hips. She knew she wasn't beautiful like her mother was. To be beautiful you had to be willowy and tall. When you were as short as Clary was, just over five feet, you were cute. Not pretty or beautiful, but cute. Throw in carroty hair and a face full of freckles, and she was a Raggedy Ann to her mother's Barbie doll.

Jocelyn even had a graceful way of walking that made people turn their heads to watch her go by. Clary, by contrast, was always tripping over her feet. The only time people turned to watch her go by was when she hurtled past them as she fell downstairs.

"Thanks for bringing the boxes up," Clary's mother said to Luke, and smiled at him. He didn't return the smile. Clary's stomach did an uneasy flip. Clearly there was something going on. "Sorry it took me so long to find a space. There must be a million people at the park today—"

"Mom?" Clary interrupted. "What are the boxes for?"

Jocelyn bit her lip. Luke flicked his eyes toward Clary, mutely urging Jocelyn forward. With a nervous twitch of her wrist, Jocelyn pushed a dangling lock of hair behind her ear and went to join her daughter on the couch.

Up close Clary could see how tired her mother looked. There were dark half-moons under her eyes, and her lids were pearly with sleeplessness.

"Is this about last night?" Clary asked.

"No," her mother said quickly, and then hesitated. "Maybe a little. You shouldn't have done what you did last night. You know better."

"And I already apologized. What is this about? If you're grounding me, get it over with."

"I'm not," said her mother, "grounding you." Her voice was as taut as a wire. She glanced at Luke, who shook his head.

"Just tell her, Jocelyn," he said.

"Could you not talk about me like I'm not here?" Clary said angrily. "And what do you mean, tell me? Tell me what?"

Jocelyn expelled a sigh. "We're going on vacation."

Luke's expression went blank, like a canvas wiped clean of paint.

Clary shook her head. "That's what this is about? You're going on vacation?" She sank back against the cushions. "I don't get it. Why the big production?"

"I don't think you understand. I meant we're all going on vacation. The three of us—you, me, and Luke. We're going to the farmhouse."

"Oh." Clary glanced at Luke, but he had his arms crossed over his chest and was staring out the window, his jaw pulled tight. She wondered what was upsetting him. He loved the old farmhouse in upstate New York—he'd bought and restored it himself ten years before, and he went there whenever he could. "For how long?"

"For the rest of the summer," said Jocelyn. "I brought the boxes in case you want to pack up any books, painting supplies—"

"For the rest of the summer?" Clary sat upright with indignation. "I can't do that, Mom. I have plans—Simon and I were going to have a back-to-school party, and I've got a bunch of meetings with my art group, and ten more classes at Tisch—"

"I'm sorry about Tisch. But the other things can be canceled. Simon will understand, and so will your art group."

Clary heard the implacability in her mother's tone and realized she was serious. "But I paid for those art classes! I saved up all year! You promised." She whirled, turning to Luke. "Tell her! Tell her it isn't fair!"

Luke didn't look away from the window, though a muscle jumped in his cheek. "She's your mother. It's her decision to make."

"I don't get it." Clary turned back to her mother. "Why?"

"I have to get away, Clary," Jocelyn said, the corners of her mouth trembling. "I need the peace, the quiet, to paint. And money is tight right now—"

"So sell some more of Dad's stocks," Clary said angrily. "That's what you usually do, isn't it?"

Jocelyn recoiled. "That's hardly fair."

"Look, go if you want to go. I don't care. I'll stay here without you. I can work; I can get a job at Starbucks or something. Simon said they're always hiring. I'm old enough to take care of myself—"

"No!" The sharpness in Jocelyn's voice made Clary jump. "I'll pay you back for the art classes, Clary. But you are coming with us. It isn't optional. You're too young to stay here on your own. Something could happen."

"Like what? What could happen?" Clary demanded.

There was a crash. She turned in surprise to find that Luke had knocked over one of the framed pictures leaning against the wall. Looking distinctly upset, he set it back. When he straightened, his mouth was set in a grim line. "I'm leaving."

Jocelyn bit her lip. "Wait." She hurried after him into the entryway, catching up just as he seized the doorknob. Twisting around on the sofa, Clary could just overhear her mother's urgent whisper."… Bane," Jocelyn was saying. "I've been calling him and calling him for the past three weeks. His voice mail says he's in Tanzania. What am I supposed to do?"

"Jocelyn." Luke shook his head. "You can't keep going to him forever."

"But Clary—"

"Isn't Jonathan," Luke hissed. "You've never been the same since it happened, but Clary isn't Jonathan."

What does my father have to do with this? Clary thought, bewildered.

"I can't just keep her at home, not let her go out. She won't put up with it."

"Of course she won't!" Luke sounded really angry. "She's not a pet, she's a teenager. Almost an adult."

"If we were out of the city…"

"Talk to her, Jocelyn." Luke's voice was firm. "I mean it." He reached for the doorknob.

The door flew open. Jocelyn gave a little scream.

"Jesus!" Luke exclaimed.

"Actually, it's just me," said Simon. "Although I've been told the resemblance is startling." He waved at Clary from the doorway. "You ready?"

Jocelyn took her hand away from her mouth. "Simon, were you eavesdropping?"

Simon blinked. "No, I just got here." He looked from Jocelyn's pale face to Luke's grim one. "Is something wrong? Should I go?"

"Don't bother," Luke said. "I think we're done here." He pushed past Simon, thudding down the stairs at a rapid pace. Downstairs, the front door slammed shut.

Jocelyn stared at her daughter, Clary getting her messenger bag, Jocelyn grabbed the bag before Clary could get to it. "Hey!" Exclaimed Clary

Jocelyn sighed "Clary, this is very important. I need you to understand." She said firmly.

Clary nodded, she was afraid Jocelyn might not even allow her to go to Tisch.

"Sit down." Instructed Jocelyn.

Clary sat down and Jocelyn sat beside her. "Clary, you are a very special girl. You can see things people don't. I do to and it's called the Shadow World." She said waiting for Clary's reaction.

"How am I supposed to believe that there is another world?" Asked Clary.

"Just let me explain." Said Jocelyn.

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**Review!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello all! As I'm writing this, I'm watching The Yoga Challenge! from PointlessBlog on Youtube! LOL! They're wearing sports bras and yoga pants!**

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Imagine Jonathan Morgenstern not evil, but good, maybe even great. If he was never poisoned with demon blood, he would have been loved, had green eyes and was amazing. He would have been loved and would've helped defeat Valentine and maybe possibly admired by a certain someone. Imagine the possibilities.

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Jonathan

Jonathan Morgenstern knew there was to be a new recruit, possibly with no experience. He would probably make Jace do the work, Jace was the more determined one, anyways, they were parabati.

When Jonathan first came, he learned that Jace's name was actually Jonathan. They were Jonathan 1 and Jonathan 2. Jonathan was Jonathan 1 and the other Jonathan was Jonathan 2, but Jace didn't want to be Jonathan 2, he wanted to be Jonathan 1. So they fought over it and Jonathan won and after that they somehow became parabati.

The new recruit was supposedly a girl, her name was Laura Carstairs. She had just arrived about 5 minutes ago. Laura had shoulder length pin-straight black hair. She had light brown eyes that was covered by big black glasses. She was tall, at least taller than Alec Lightwood.

Alec Lightwood was brother of Isabelle Lightwood. He was about 18 years old, Alec had black hair and blue eyes and was shorter than his sister who was younger. Isabelle Lightwood had long raven black hair and was a very tall girl, taller than Laura. Isabelle was 16 years old while both Jace and Jonathan were 17.

Laura Carstairs was 15, almost 16, her birthday was in July.

Laura looked a bit Chinese, it made her features delicate and fragile.

Jonathan had never felt this emotion before, it was undescribable. It was this weird feeling in his chest, like his heart was going to jump out. For once, he had no idea what to do.

What Jonathan didn't know was that he himself might have admired or like Laura.

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Jace

Jace could tell that Jonathan liked Laura, he just didn't seem to get there yet. Who cares? It was war, even though they were parabati. He could have been parabati with Alec, because Alec had offered once and Jace had told him that he needed time to think.

Jace didn't really remember why he even accepted Jonathan as parabati. They were pratically bonded, just that they couldn't really each others minds.

Jonathan wasn't always that bright, he could figure out lots of stuff, he just couldn't figure out himself, maybe that was why Jace accepted Jonathan's request to become parabati, maybe it was because Jace felt sympatic towards him.

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**UNFINISHED CHAPTER!**


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